


artillery loop

by eudaimon



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been the same his whole life: control is like a drug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	artillery loop

It's been the same his whole life: control is like a drug. When he was a teenager, it manifested in dangerous ways; he threw his bike too hard into corners and skidded...he dry swallowed pills and floated just for the sensation of feeling himself coming back. Despairing, his Mom and Dad had slammed him into Military School and maybe that had helped and maybe it hadn't but what it _had_ done was set him on a path that had led him in a very particular direction.

In his career, Brad's always teetered infuriatingly; utterly in control of his own self but often operating in a complete cluster-fuck of a situation.  
Until he met Nate Fick and felt everything crinkle into place.

On his belly on the bed, Brad shifts his weight. The apartment behind him is quiet; there's music on, somewhere: guitars, an English accented voice. The ropes bite into his wrists but not uncomfortably so. Nate ties good knots; Brad's always known this. When he was young, he took risks. It took a long, long time for him to settle into this. Control is like a drug but giving it up? Trusting Nate enough for that? It's like a fucking _cure_.

He closes his eyes and breathes and waits.

“Spread your legs, Brad.” 

A shiver goes straight down Brad's spine. It's a chain of command thing; Nate might have been in Boston for a year, might have let his hair grow out, might look more at home in sneakers and a book-bag than he ever did in combats and kevlar but, in a very real way, he's always going to outrank Brad.

He shifts on the bed, spreading his thighs wider. Nate's slick fingers rub against him and Brad makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. His hips hitch backwards, his knees pressing into the bed to press against Nate's fingers as Nate methodically fucks him, as Nate rolls his wrist and really opens him up. He growls and presses his nose into the pillow. Nate's fingertips graze his prostate and his hips jerk against the bed. He could come like this (he _has_ come like this) but then Nate's dragging his fingers free, pressing a sucking kiss to Brad's shoulder that turns into a bite.

“Come here,” murmurs Nate, his mouth moving against Nate's shoulder.

He shifts and Nate lies down close enough that it's easy for Brad to roll against him. Nate's thigh comes up to cradle him, his head pillowed on Nate's arm, Nate's hand firm against his jaw to turn his face. The United States Marine Corps spent approximately one million dollars turning Brad Colbert into a fully formed Reconnaissance man but all it took to completely undo him was Nate Fick's firm hands.

They kiss like that, a lazy, sloppy tangle of mouths, Brad's dick pressed against Nate's belly, Nate's skin hot and smooth where it touches his. It's hot in Somerville in the summer and Brad can feel the sweat between them and Nate's mouth is cold and sweet from whatever he's been drinking.

“Please,” he says. His voice cracks.  
Mouth to mouth, Nate smiles.

They rock together, Nate's fingers curled against both of their dicks, holding them together. It's a little awkward with his hands bound, with the ache in his thighs and his naked need. He wants to push his fingers into Nate's longer hair, wants to fist Nate's dick, wants to press slick fingers past Nate's lips or into his ass but, instead, there he is, rocking into Nate's touch, his dick sliding against Nate's, his mouth open against Nate's mouth and every part of him wanting and every part of him Nate's.

And it's fucking perfect.  
There's a humming in his head that's been there his whole life that falls quiet when he's with Nate. It's like a circuit that's completed.

They never called him 'Iceman' because he doesn't feel.

“Come on, Brad,” says Nate and this is exactly what he's been waiting for, that moment when Nate leans close and whispers it right into his ear. “Come on.”

_Yes sir,_ he thinks and he's laughing when he comes. Dimly, he's aware of Nate coming too, and the war stickiness of both of them between their bodies, on his belly, and he sinks into being aware of nothing but the bite of the ropes into his wrists.

They come down like that, his body cradled forward against Nate's, foreheads resting together. He lets out a whimpering breath and, later, there'll be Nate just as sure when he's undoing knots, kissing rope-burns, the warm wash of the shower. Later, later, later.

For now, there's just Nate's body to cradle him and the warm rhythm of breathing.  
It's a surrender of the most perfect sort.


End file.
